Blue Winter Rose
by ApheliaDecays
Summary: Set pre-series. Follow Lady Lyanna, the She-Wolf of Winterfell, and learn the truth behind her death in this haunting tale of two star-crossed lovers. Currently rated T, but may become M in the future,
1. Chapter 1

**Blue Winter Rose**

_"Beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time."_  
_-Eddard Stark_

Chapter One

Daemon was from north of the Wall, perhaps no older than five. The spirit of a wildling could be seen in his eyes and he was known to lash out at moment's notice, breaking dozens of bones and even killing a man with a single kick. His hide was as dark as night in the Hells and every inch of him was pure muscle; he attacked without discrimination, though men were more common than women in the stables. He only allowed a select few to touch him but those who he did, he trusted with his life and it was only in their presence would he quiet, allowing one to see the gentleness he possessed.

The crisp wind bit at Lyanna's cheeks, burning a scarlet flush across her cheeks but she didn't care. She gave the stallion his head, trusting him to run true though the Wolfswood. Neither knew where they were headed but Daemon flew in the darkness over logs, moist with decay, and thundered through the creek, splashing freezing water to Lyanna's bare legs. Throwing her head back, she laughed and howled to the sky, a sound more animal than human in the full moon's yellow light.

It was well into the blackest part of the night when the two finally returned home, though the morn couldn't have been far off. Both of them were panting heavily and sweating from exertion and the warmth of the barn. Lyanna slipped the cloak lined in ginger-colored fox fur from her shoulders, clad only in her white nightshift and set to groom Daemon. There was need to remove his saddle and bridle for on this night there was none.

"Head," she told him gently, stretching a hand upward to touch the space just behind his ears. Immediately, he lowered his neck so she could comb the tangles out of his mane.

He was about seventeen hands in height. It was far too much of a horse for a noble lady but Lyanna enjoyed nights like this where she could place her hand upon that great neck, the highest point of her head still half a foot below the stallion's withers. Daemon would curl his neck towards his mistress, brown eyes boring into grey, unshod hooves and bare toes pressed to straw while their breath created misty clouds in the lamplight.

Dawn found the stallion standing guard with Lyanna at his feet. He whickered lowly when the barn door swung open and he squared off, head high, and ready to defend his sleeping mistress. Most of the men who entered were familiar—lads no older than she, with black-brown hair and her pale eyes—but the other was new. He was tall and broad in stature, his hair chocolate-colored and eyes as blue as the sea.

Brandon Stark reached and stroked Daemon's face before the horse pulled back, gently turning in his stall to Lyanna and breathed in her scent.

The hot wind in her hair roused the sleeping lady and she stretched softly in the hay, arching with feline grace with her pale legs tangled in her nightdress. At the state of her undress, the men cast their eyes away to allow her modesty.

"How'd we know to find you here?" Eddard asked, grasping her cloak and holding it out to her as she stood.

Lyanna yawned and flipped the fur over her shoulders, rubbing at her eyes.

"Hello, brothers, Lord Baratheon."

The men smiled in return, addressing her with a slight incline of their heads, and Eddard opened the stall door for her.

"To bed with you," he said. "Father will have your head if he catches you sleeping out here again."

"Where are you off to?"

"A hunt," Benjen answered and he hugged his big sister in greeting. "You smell like manure."

Lyanna threw her head back laughing, full of mirth at his jest.

"Oh, thank you. Good morning, to you, too, sweet pup." She ruffled his hair, hanging loose around his shoulders like their older brothers' locks. She secured the buttons at her throat, the earth cold and dry against her feet. "I'll get my things."

"Not this time, you won't," Eddard said.

"And why is that?"

Robert Baratheon spoke up. "Lyanna, the hunt is no place for a lady."

She looked him in the eye, steady and challenging. "Then we're quite lucky no ladies are present, aren't we, Robert?"

Robert barked out his boisterous laughter, slapping Eddard on the shoulder as her brothers eyed her warily; a woman should always refer to noblemen as such, not their names. She didn't care. He shouldn't have addressed her so informally.

"You're right about this one, Ned," he said. "Wolf-blood runs deep through her veins."

Brandon gently placed his hands on his sister's shoulders, steering her away.

"We've important matters to discuss with Robert," he told her. "And Father's coming. But once we return, shall you and I take the horses out for a run?"

Lyanna sighed and nodded in defeat. No matter the luxuries her father allowed her, turning a blind eye when she hunted with her brothers with a quiver strapped to her back and a bow in her hand or raced across the countryside with Brandon like a pair of centaurs galloping into the setting sun, she would forever be a woman and therefore confined to a woman's place. And she would behave.

The maiden returned to her chambers and slept until midday as she often did on nights she decided on a midnight ride. When she awoke, she broke her fast alone and went immediately to the gardens hidden in the far corner of the courtyard. This corner of the wood was hers and hers alone, given to her by her father on her thirteenth name day. Here, the only bloom to be seen were the blue winter roses, growing high on tall walls of green bushes and in tendrils of thorny vines curling delicately around wooden arches and stone benches.

These flowers had always been Lyanna's favorite, as they were for many patrons of Winterfell, but she did not see them as others did. The blossom was lovely, ranging from deep indigos to the lightest shade of off-white. But Lyanna didn't care for such a superficial attribute; the blue winter rose was a hardy plant, the only to reach towards the sky when darkness enveloped it and heavy-laden snow pressed each bloom down under its weight. The lovely rose would still be there when winter ended and spring returned to the land. Winter is coming, those were her family's words, and the blue winter roses knew this better than most; they were always prepared, always ready for anything the Gods might throw at them.

Lord Rickard Stark's feet fell soundly to the ground and his breath was heavy after he returned with his sons and sought out his daughter. He wasn't as young as he used to be, as all four of his children were already grown, and his face faded fast to deep wrinkles set in his skin and a silver lacing thickly through his beard.

He journeyed with Robert and the two found her in the garden seated upon the gnarled roots of an old tree, staring up at the sky with her back pressed to its trunk and a sapphire blue rose in her hand. It was the most divine sight Robert had ever seen: the fair maid as green as the grass growing at her feet with hair the color of ebony and a pink flush from the cold painting her cheek prettily. A little red bird fluttered by and she closed her eyes to feel the warmth of the rare, northern sun on her skin. Her hair curled softly and a lock fell from behind her ear and she tugged is absentmindedly, extending its length so that it stretched to her naval and released it to bounce back up.

She was as lovely as the roses surrounding her, but Rickard knew every rose had its thorns.

"I'll speak with her first," he told Robert, not wanting the girl's unavoidable rage to spoil the alliance. Robert nodded, his eyes still on the girl, trying to memorize everything about this moment—the way the breeze pulled at her hair, the frosty cloud of her breath—and left the man to speak with the girl.

Rickard cleared his throat and Lyanna turned, smiling at once to her father and rising to her feet.

"Welcome home, Father," she said. "I trust you enjoyed yourself?"

Rickard stepped forward to a bench and slowly lowered his weight down, holding a hand out for her to join him.

"I did," he answered. "The morning was very profitable."

"What did you catch? Deer? Bear? Saber-toothed cat?"

Lyanna's lips parted slightly and her eyes were wide, glimmering brightly with excitement. As much as he loved her, this silly delight needed to come to an end.

"There are no saber-toothed cats south of the Wall, Lyanna."

She smiled. "I know. But imagine if there were! If anyone could catch them, it'd be you."

Rickard grunted something under his breath. Before Lyanna could ask what he had said, he spoke again.

"The Baratheon lad asked me for your hand," Rickard said.

Lyanna let out a laugh. "The poor dear! I hope he took the news well."

He had spoiled the girl and allowed her too much independence in her youth, this he knew. There was no easy way to tell this to his spirited daughter of the engagement but like any young filly, the time had come for her to be saddled and well broken.

"He did, indeed. He's now your betrothed and will be courting you until you until your next name day. Then, he'll marry you."

She repeated his words in her mind slowly, trying to understand if she had heard him correctly.

"But… What?"

"After you've turned six and ten—" Lord Rickard clarified, "—you're to marry the Baratheon."

She was silent.

"Father, I… won't. You can't make me."

"I can and I will." He stood up but Lyanna joined him.

"But what about love?" she pressed stubbornly. "I don't love him."

"Love is for children, Lyanna. At least the kind you're thinking of. You'll grow to love him."

The wolf maid took a step away. This was all so terribly wrong.

"And if I wished to be married to the Gods?"

"The Gods aren't as rich as Robert, nor do they possess enough political support to serve as a bannerman. Lyanna, you're nearly five and ten—its time you've grown up and… Lyanna, come back here!"

But she would not. She dashed away, racing back through the keep and up flights of stairs until she found her chamber. The slamming of her bedroom door rang through the castle and echoed down long corridors. Lyanna paced anxiously, she sat on her bed, and rose again to the window. Angry tears burned her eyes and threatened to spill over but she wouldn't allow them. She screamed and it helped, and so she howled and tossed bottled perfumes and oils to the walls, tearing fine dresses to shreds until her throat was hoarse and exhaustion overtook her upon the shag of bear fur beside her bed.

.

**Dear Reader,**

**Hello. This is my first time writing anything, ever. Is it good? Bad? Please be kind, but I'd really like to know what you think.**

**I haven't read the books-I'm waitlisted at my library-but I have read some spoilers online and watch the show religiously. Hopefully its enough to make some parallels.**

**If you'd like to see some visuals for what I have in my head, they'll be on my page and updated as new elements are introduced.**

**Thank you for your time.  
Blessings and Love to you and yours.**  
**-ApheliaDecays**


	2. Chapter 2

**Blue Winter Rose**

Chapter Two

She didn't come to dinner that night, nor did she rise to break her fast in the morning. One of her handmaidens was bid to bring her roasted dove, sweet peaches and cold pears all the way from Dorne, sliced bread spread with thick jelly, and pale wine imported from across the Narrow Sea. Lyanna sent it away. At dinner, Lord Stark sent the Master-at-Arms to fetch her, trusting no other with the She-Wolf of Winterfell. Not with her archery skills and a bow posed beside her bed. But Lyanna simply bolted her door and listened to his heavy fist falling upon it soundly.

Her brothers came, one by one, and then Father, each coaxing and demanding her to open the door. Lyanna sat perched on her balcony's railing; leather boots wrapped her legs to the knee as they dangled over the side. She was a wild thing, Lyanna, and she paced in her cage, humming in annoyance at the lot the Gods had dealt her, longing to be free. She sang to the breeze and waited for nightfall so she may sneak out for a ride with Daemon.

She could run away and never return. Daemon was the fastest in the North—in all of Westeros, maybe. She knew how to hunt and fight, and possessed enough gold to pay her way from the Wall to Qarth. She could outrun her father, Bran, and even the Gods themselves and become one of the infamous shield maidens of Braavos.

_A wolf to lie with a stag_, she thought angrily to herself. _He'd be as good as dead the instant he entered her den_.

The sun had just set the next time a gentle knocking sounded on her door.

"I'm not here!" she called from where she lied lazily on her bed.

"Very funny. Open the door."

"And why should I? You knew all this time, didn't you?"

"Lya, you need to eat something."

And her stomach growled, the traitor. Lyanna stood, crossing away to open the door just enough to peek her head out. Eddard stood with a plate of sweet smelling food. The dish rested atop a black and gold box.

"May I come in?"

"The food may, _you_ may not."

But the man stepped forward, closing the door behind himself and setting the plate down at a table. Lyanna eyed him warily as if he might drag her off to Robert's chamber the second she turned her back, but nevertheless, she helped herself to the honeyed goat meat and boiled turnips and potatoes.

"I've a gift for you." Eddard said, placing the box beside her. She took it and lifted the lid. Inside rested a necklace more extravagant than one could ever find in the North. Hundreds of diamonds encompassed the band, yellow stones glittering down the center of the piece.

"What do you think?"

"This isn't from you."

Frown lines appeared on Eddard's face as he prepared for battle. "It's from Robert."

Lyanna replaced the lid, hiding the jewels and returned to her plate.

"It's lovely," she said and took a sip on her red wine. "Do all of his bitches get such a fine collar?"

"Lyanna—"

"No, Ned. I won't marry him. All of Westeros knows about the Stone girl—tell me that's truly only a rumor."

Her brother was silent.

"He's already claimed one bastard," she continued, "and the Gods only know how many more there are!"

Eddard shook his head.

"Nothing before your engagement matters. He'll change, Lyanna."

Lyanna laughed bitterly at this.

"He's a good man. He's strong and brave, and—"

"Would you like to wed him in my stead, dear brother?"

"He'll be a true husband," he continued, ignoring her interruptions. "And he'll provide for you and your children."

"_A true husband_," she scoffed. "Do you honestly believe that man will keep to one bed?"

"He's in love with you."

She didn't know Robert well, but he had been a longtime friend of Eddard. Words were rarely exchanged between the maid and the man, but she had seen the way he looked at her when she spared in the courtyard with Benjen, the way his hands lingered upon her calf when he helped her mount her horse for she and Bran's ride less than a week ago.

"I know."

"You say that as if it were a disease," her brother noted.

"_Ned_." She was begging now and looked back the closed box beside her half-eaten meal. Suddenly, she had lost her appetite. Eddard took her hand.

"Let him, Lya, and you'll be happier for it. You'll rule Storm's End. You'll give him many sons and they'll grow to be the Lord of all the Stormlands, or Kingsguard men, or sit on the king's council."

With her eyes still on the box, she searched desperately for the words to make him understand but none would come. She slipped her hand from his and rose from her seat, backing away from the table.

"No, that's… not me."

Lyanna left her meal, her brother, and all propriety to lose herself in the feel of Daemon's steady breath. She balled her fists in his mane and buried her face in his neck, trusting his strength to keep her grounded.

She didn't hear the heavy footfalls or the groaning of the door behind her. It wasn't until he spoke that she turned, whirling around in surprise.

"My Lady."

"Lord Baratheon."

"You're well this evening."

Lyanna looked away, knowing she could never answer the way she wished but she could not lie. She turned her eyes back to Daemon. She would be civilized.

"I've been better, my lord."

Robert didn't reply. He stepped towards the wolf maid and her mount, both beasts eyeing him suspiciously.

"That's a fine destrier."

"He's a garron," Lyanna corrected, though she could see why one would think he was; Daemon's mane and tail were long and thick, his feet feathered. "Destriers can't survive this far north; they need too much food and it's too cold, especially in the winter. He's just as smart as any, though."

"He is a handsome beast. I have a harlequined destrier back at the Stormhold, a mare. We'll arrange a marriage; create a steed with the best qualities of both lands."

The man reached a hand to stroke Daemon's nose and the stallion threw his head, whinnying crossly. Lyanna placed a hand on his flank to steady him.

"He's a bit rough around the edges."

"Much like yourself," she replied before she could bite her tongue. "Forgive me—"

"There's nothing to forgive," he answered just as quickly.

It was quiet again, only the scuffling of the barn cats chasing each other across the straw-laden floor and occasional neigh of the horses could be heard. It allowed Lyanna to lose herself in thought.

Her fifteenth name day was just under half a year away, and by her sixteenth she would leave her relative freedom before entering the shackles a married woman must endure. But what was freedom? She was still property. She belonged to her father and soon, she would belong to Robert and must do as he bid.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. It was a terribly long engagement by noble standards and allowed her time to at least get to know the man before accepting him into her bed. And Robert wasn't bad looking; indeed, he was quite handsome in his rugged way, but still…

"I don't love you."

"I know," he answered, though he squared his shoulders at her words and could feel his heart crack. "But you'll grow to love me."

"Everyone keeps saying that," and her voice was so small and quiet that he barely heard her.

"That's because they're right. It's how it's been for thousands of years; you don't see husbands and wives pissing on each other's graves. They come to find comfort in each other."

And then those tears finally fell free, running wet lines glistening in the firelight down her cheeks. Robert saw them though she tried to hide in Daemon's mane. He grabbed her wrist—too roughly—and tugged her away from the horse, away from her youth, and pressed her tightly to his broad chest. Her arms were between them, her hands pressed limply in the crook of her own neck as her tears stained his clothes. She hated herself for them, but she did not pull away, not even when Robert pressed his lips firmly to hers, as unyielding as they may be.

Daemon pawed at the door to his stable and the sound sent a shockwave of realization through his mistress. She had thrashed wildly, she had been starved, and in her moment of exhausted surrender, she had been fitted with the bridle.

Lyanna turned away from his lips and cried out the strangled scream of a wounded animal, her broken heart echoing through the stables. She clawed to get away, but the man held her fast, soothing hums from deep within his chest and smoothing her soft hair.

.

**Dear Reader,**

**Hello. I got Game of Thrones from my library today so I'm celebrating by posting this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. I'm trying to write Lyanna as slightly ahead of her time but still a product of it; some fanfics I've read paint her as just rude and unreasonable, even though she's the daughter of a Lord and would have always known this day would come. Of course she's upset right now, but hopefully, my Lyanna will be different. Also, Ned said something similar to Arya in the show as he did in this fic and made a weird face, almost like he was expierencing deja vu, so I just had to make Lyanna respond to it similarly. lols.**

**White Fang Fan: Whoo! My first review! lols. First of all, I love the name. :) White Fang and The Call of the Wild are my favorite London books. And thank you; you're sweet to say so.**

**Thank you for your time.  
Blessings and Love to you and yours.**  
**-ApheliaDecays**


End file.
